My Apology to Oxfam

/ aspinalllucy

So, after my rather het up complaint about being airbrushed out of my moment of Oxfam glory last week, I must now eat a rather large slice of humble pie.

It turns out that the photos I saw after the photo-shoot were only a small sample of what will be used, and I am indeed included in some of the others.

Putting up a feeble defence of myself, I can say that if the email had made clear there were others out there, as it were, I would have kept my mouth and typing fingers under better control.

But in all honesty two things have come out of this – a reminder just how vain a woman can be in the face of a promise of being in a public photo and – more importantly, how nice it feels to be back in a good mood with Oxfam.

(Though, of course, after my tantrum, they might have to seriously restrain themselves from really airbrushing me out of the picture…)

 

 

 

 

 

Shot by Oxfam

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So, I was asked to go to an Oxfam photo shoot.

(Let me warn you this does not end well.)

Some time ago I had auctioned to be in an Oxfam film and – despite smiling through my Skype interview – I was rejected.

But I was told, they might be making some short films of volunteers talking about what they do and we, in the shop, thought this might be a valuable recruiting tool.

So, when I was contacted I though this was what it was about and said no, as I had a stinking cold and no voice.

But at 6.30 one Thursday night, I was rung by someone from Oxfam HQ asking me if I could possibly, possibly make it to a photographer’s studio in East London by 10am the next day.

So, I schlepped up from Deepest Sussex to trendy East London and it turns out the (extremely nice, and rather famous photographer) was so on trend that his studio was in the corner of a cement-mixing yard – yes, that cool.

I however, looked like a windblown Rudolph and required the best efforts of the make-up people to make me look human.

(Also, after my attempts to re-create a recent haircut, my best beloved told me I looked like Grayson Perry so I had to have extensive access to hair-straighteners.)

‘You are our hero,’ the cool photographer said.

I only had a cold and had only come from Deepest Sussex so it seemed a bit over the top, but hey ho, I was sipping Lemsip all morning so was feeling quite heroic.

Anyway, there were eight of us and we were asked to be in small group shots, in a big group and then to be taken individually.

It was only when we did the all-group shots that I realised being the hero meant being out front.

I presumed this was because of the demographic of Oxfam volunteers – a surfeit of middle-aged, white women – and the fact that there were two lovely young black women ( one of whom was a fashion stylist from London), a handful of interns from Oxfam headquarters and two men, so they didn’t really have much of a representative sample of us volunteers.

Anyway, there I was out front with my pricing gun, chatting to the very charming, very cool photographer and trying to look less like Grayson Perry with a red nose and more like a happy Oxfam volunteer.

So, we were all done and I went home and looked up the photographer – and indeed, he had photographed Helen Mirren, Vivienne Westwood and sorts of other famous people who looked amazing in his photos.

Yes, you can guess what is coming. When I got the photos of me emailed through, I really, really wish I had held in my stomach and lost that stone I had been promising to lose for a year or more.

Ah well, there you go, I thought.

Last night I got an email from Oxfam HQ titled ‘You’re famous!’ and I must admit to a little thrill even with the prospect of seeing my fat self on a poster in Oxfam shops across the country.

But they have photo-shopped me out of the group photo altogether and replaced me with an attractive, young and needless to say, slimmer Oxfam intern.

Not only that, but they have also done a pen portrait of all of us as individuals to go alongside a head shot and gave me the quote from someone else.

I wanted to shout at them that I had never said I needed Oxfam to ‘improve my self-esteem.’

So, I am definitely not famous, not even visible and given that, I will not be relying on Oxfam to improve my self esteem!

(P.S the photographer was Perou and you can see his great photos on his website.)

 

Autumn Rituals

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some of this year’s crop

If you are a housewife in Deepest Sussex, however reluctant, there are some rituals associated with this time of year.

The Aga is back on. Obviously, there was an outbreak of very warm weather immediately after it was ceremoniously re-lit but I resisted attempts to have it turned down or off and today is gratifyingly chilly – and it is currently draped with drying knickers and socks.

Then there is the business of turning nature’s bounty into jars of stuff which can be sold to friends in aid of Syrian refugees – a ritual we started at the beginning of the war so it has some years standing – none of this johnny-come-lately refugee crisis activity.

Our crab apple tree had taken a couple of years off and was looking poorly but this year (after some ministrations) it has rewarded us with a big crop.

Too big infact.

Making crab apple jelly is a time consuming faff which involves having bags of dripping mush scattered around the kitchen for many hours, re-boiling and all that sort of stuff.

My recommendation is that you just don’t bother unless it comes with your job description.

The18 jars do look nice – a very pleasing pink and popular with the punters.

But the garden path is generously littered with more of them which I feel bad about going to waste so something more will have to be done with them.
(In case you are interested, yes there will be some elderberry vinegar and blackberry and apple jam and when I get bored with that, I will do some more interesting pickles.)

There are also clouds of pheasants released ready for the shoot and this year the landowner seems to have let out more than the usual number.

They change over a few weeks from hundreds of little brown jobs into magnificently plumed gorgeous looking birds – well, at least the males do.

They are very dim birds, and when they hear a car coming they seem to feel an overwhelming urge to run across the road or gallop off in-front of the on-coming vehicle.

It is hard work not to run them over, and can add quite a bit to your travelling time along our lanes this time of year.

However, just before Christmas the land-owner will bring a brace over – all cleaned and sorted and ready for a very nice supper.

Then there is the upholstery in aid of Syrian refugees which has also been going for a few years.

A friend and I re-upholster some chairs and sell them on Gumtree or Preloved so, obviously, the idea is to get the chairs and fabric cheap, and make a healthy profit.

Being an aficionado of the local tip shop, I got very excited when I saw a pair of G-Plan dinning chairs.

G-Plan being part of the current ‘Mid-Century, darling’ craze and only costing me a fiver, I was very pleased.

For reasons I won’t bore you with, I have been in contact with a very nice woman who is making a film for Oxfam.

I told her about this find and it turns out she is a G-Plan fan and wants the chairs. She also has the fabric she wants them done in.

Good news you may think, and indeed it is, but I feel a bit cheated – selling them so easily, not getting the chance to chose the fabric ( always the best bit of re-upholstery), makes me feel the ritual is not complete.

So I am on the hunt for some more chairs.

I went to an auction but ended up buying an elm ladder-backed rocking chair which we will keep. ( I do like to rescue old elm chairs because we won’t see the like, as my grandmother used to say.)

I will keep looking but time is not on our side – upholstery takes longer than you might think.

But on the upside, this is a chilly Autumn Sunday and there is Antiques Roadshow on tonight – a ritual I always enjoy.

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Refugees & Rabbit Pie

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We feel strongly about the plight of refugees and so, this weekend, my best-beloved went to the march in London to show support. ( I think he looks rather magisterial….)

The reason I didn’t go shows our Sussex life in microcosm – I was dog-sitting for friends who were off to Goodwood Revival ( lots of classic car racing and people dressed up in vintage stuff.) I stayed home and made rabbit pie…..

Anyway, I have been to more marches in support of good causes than I have made rabbit pies, so the best-beloved went off alone and on his very first march.

It was a bit like ( I imagine) sending you child off to first day at big school. I made sure he had a rucksack & water bottle, and told him not to talk to any members of the Socialist Workers’ Party – not to be trusted and mad as hatters.

I was very proud of him and a little worried about letting him go into the big world of marches on his own – but I was pretty sure that kettling was unlikely under the circumstances.

He had the idea a few days ago to get people to wear a yellow lapel ribbon to show their support for refugees.

He wanted me to set up a Twitter and Facebook campaign but as I have all of about 3 followers and friends, this was unlikely to happen – and I have only just worked out that setting up a public page on Facebook would be a start.

( On that, we have a new potential volunteer at the shop who is a Facebook native and so I will be demanding lessons to get me passed the clunky middle-aged-woman-tries-social-media thing.)

Anyway, on the march he managed to get rid of his cache of yellow ribbons and one ‘nice young woman’ has promised to help with the campaign.

So who knows, it might just happen.

Meanwhile, I had tweeted he was off on his first march and got a abuse for the first time – I am not sure how the ‘abuser’  found me or why he was so angry ( I am presuming it was a he, given his comments) but I suppose it is some sort of right of passage on social media.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

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It is that time of year again when I get into the whole making preserves thing.

I am sure I have said before, and no doubt will say again, that jam-making is not how I saw the trajectory of my middle age.

I had seen myself more doing something interesting with my life – writing a book, being a smart interim manager bringing light and general good things to despairing organisations, working for the UN and getting some trips to New York where I would broker alliances……not all of those things at once, of course.

Anyway here I am already with ten jars of Povidle. (Look it up – its an interesting Eastern European plum ‘cheese’ which can be used to go along with a cheese board or sweet Hungarian dumplings – not being a Hungarian dumpling-maker even at this stage of my housewifery, I shall substitute eggy bread made with brioche & sprinkled with sugar. And I added cinnamon sticks to the mix in case you are thinking of having a go.)

For the last two years our crab apple tree has not been forthcoming with its fruit and I was sorry – it is lovely tree – and, of course, you cannot buy crab apples in the shops so it was nice to have it in the garden – it gave me a smug feeling of nature’s bounty and all that stuff.

This year it has gone overboard, and so crab apple jelly is on the cards again – and I am alarmed at the extent of nature’s bounty.

For those of you who don’t do the preserve thing, let me say that it is a pain in the arse to make crabapple jelly.

There is no getting round it.

It is not complicated, but it is a long-winded business which starts with picking up the windfalls ( the best beloved did a bucket full today), then you have to get rid of the bruised bits –  but actually I get bored with that cutting up and, after a bit, I throw whole crabapples into the pan, willy-nilly.

Then you have to cook them and then – and this is the real pain bit – you have to strain the juice.

So, you need to imagine my kitchen with broom handles resting between chairs and muslin bags strung on the handles full of crabapple mush which have to drip into containers overnight.

And then you have to start with sugar and boiling points, jam jars which need sterilising and their labels removing, etc etc etc.

By the way there are a few jars of something down in the cellar which I made earlier in the year and cannot for the life of me remember what it is – some pickle or another….but forgot to label them. I will think of some pickle name and then make up some labels – another long-winded process.

And then there are the blackberries.

My best beloved would like a good bramble jelly as made by his mum but that isn’t going to happen for two reasons – one I have tried it and it came out like jellied concrete and the other is that it needs that dripping malarky and I am not doing that twice in a year.

So, I will beg and steal some apple windfalls and then some blackberries and there will be some jam.

Of course, unless you are willing to spend every minute of your life at this time of year making preserves, you have to freeze stuff so that you can do it when you get round to it.

That means clearing out the freezer.

So we are currently eating stuff out of the freezer in strange combinations – who knew fish-fingers could go with roasted peppers, for example.

We have some people coming for meals this weekend and they will be surprised by the unusual combinations – I shall explain it is a Hungarian traditional feast, and pass them the Povidle.

I will say in my defence of preserve making for the reluctant housewife, we sell them at our winter lunch for Syrian refugees. ( Best beloved says they must be bloody fed up with jam by now but I think that this year, brandishing a jar of Hungarian preserves might be useful….)

A Couple of Curiosities

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There was the usual in-flow of books today.

Thursday, as I may have said before, is the day when a surprising number of people decide to have a clear out and then bring in boxes and bags, and more boxes of books.

I have no idea why Thursday is the day – and of course there are other donations on other days, but Thursday is never without a lot of book sorting.

So despite the fact, always the optimist, I had a list of interesting other things planned, I spent the afternoon sorting.

Among the boxes – did I mention there were a lot of them? – I found a few little treasures.

None of them worth anything much in case you were getting excited at the prospect of a great find.

One had the marvellous title of ‘From the Romans to B&Q – a history of Wyberton’ I take my hat off to the local historians who came up with that. (They do live in Lincolnshire….)

And then there was the lovely art nouveau cover of a travel/photography book on the Norfolk Broads.

And finally, I found a diary from 1946 in which someone had almost filled with his (I am guessing from the handwriting it was a he, but I could be wrong,) translation of words from Beowulf into modern English.

And there was a notebook with more words translated.

These have no monetary value whatsoever but it was very nice handling them and knowing that someone had spent hours and hours working through Beowulf.

Perhaps,he was a Beowulf scholar and came up with a great modern English version.

I will never know, but I couldn’t bring myself to put them in the re-cycling sack.

So, just as someone must have been clearing out their parent’s home and decided to get rid of these old notebooks, no doubt someone will find them when they clear out my stuff – so one day they will end up in a sack but not tonight.

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I want stuff that works – and someone to help with our CDs

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I am a big fan of quotations and of Douglas Adams, and two of my favourite quotes by him came to mind today.

He wrote, ’ We are stuck with technology when what we really want it stuff that works.’

And
‘Anything that is in the world when you’re born is normal and ordinary and is just a natural part of the way the world works.
Anything that’s invented between when you’re fifteen and thirty-five is new and exciting and revolutionary and you can probably get a career in it.
Anything invented after you’re thirty-five is against the natural order of things.’

If at this point you are expecting the writings of a middle-aged woman baffled by some aspect of technology that a babe-in-arms would handle, then you are more or less right, and you might want to go off and do something else.

I  am not at all sure why you cannot have two Twitter accounts from one email address? More than that, why the hell not?

I have set up a twitter account for the Oxfam shop – called, just in case you live locally – OxfamBookPetersfield.

(It would not surprise my friend Anthony to note that yes, I meant to put OxfamBooksPetersfield – but didn’t proof read and so I am stuck with the missing S as I have no way of knowing how to amend it.)

I tweet badly and in a desultory fashion – not because I am not interested but I don’t think I have much interesting to say and I am not attuned enough to be re-tweeting really interesting stuff.

I want this account to be accessed from my laptop as well as my phone and my other twitter account, the one you find me on, to be accessed from my phone too.

Why is that too much to ask?

Anyway, we badly need to find someone locally to take on the DVD and vinyl & CDs side of the Oxfam bookshop business.

Our two music and film experts have taken it into their heads to move to the West Country and the very nice young woman who offered to take it on, has taken it into her head to go travelling in a VW camper around New Zealand for a year.

So, I reckon we need a young person who can do the aforementioned stuff, and at the same time run a Facebook account for the shop. And indeed, if I could find someone to do just the Facebook stuff, it might throw up, as it were, a young person or two who likes music and film.

But I am useless at Facebook – these blogs only get out there because WordPress took the whole issue of my hands and do it for me without so much as a by your leave, or further bothering my not-so-pretty little head about it.

(And, I don’t like Facebook. I really don’t need to a see a picture of your Sunday lunch or know that you have just bought a fab pair of jeans…..)

I need a digital native.

Which I me definitely not, but even at my advanced age there are some things which I take for granted – Google and email, for example. (Though I can remember a time without them …..)

I heard the bright people at Oxfam in Huntingdon, faced with the same mountain of books they had to re-cycle, had contacted local art college and offered them the ‘dead’ books.

These are then used to make paper sculptures and other artworks as part of their course, and displayed in the shop window.

Never one to worry about stealing a bright idea, I fired off an email, suggesting a chat about it, to the head of visual arts at Petersfield School. ( No, we don’t have a college – we are a small, insignificant, but rather nice, market town.)

I think emails are better than a phone call, in the first instance, because a phone call can ambush someone and an email gives them time to think about their response.

Well, that is to say, think about it for a bit – a short bit. Emails are there to be responded to quite quickly even if it is only with a, ‘ Let me have a think about it and be in touch shortly,’ kind of email.

Not so in a school environment, it would seem…….

Human Sympathy

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If the story of some 70 people dying an agonising death in a lorry in Austria after, no doubt, risking life and limb to escape some brutal war, does not move people, god knows what would.

For a while now my best beloved has been collecting facts on immigrants and refugees – and no they are not the same despite the best efforts of some to conflate the issues.

I want to get something as cogent as the Daily Mail but from the other side. I am sure it is out there, but I haven’t laid my hands on it yet.

I want something that I could take to the pub and silence the voices that say, ‘Yes, I know, those poor people. But we are a small and overcrowded island and really we just can’t take any more.’

I haven’t got that killer piece in my hand, so I will just carry on with what I have got.

Here are just a few facts that might come in handy tomorrow night in the pub.

At the end of 2014 there were 19.5 million refugees worldwide.

Some 42,500 people a day left their homes and their usual lives to try and get to a place of safety.

Not only would the journey be dangerous but it is important to think about what it would be like for us if we had to leave our homes and set out to try and find a place of safety. Just what would you carry across a dessert or sea? Probably nothing. That means leaving all your life behind.

Some 86 per cent of those people ended up in developing countries. Not rich countries, developing countries.

There are 1.3 million Syrian refugees in Lebanon. It has a population of just over 4 million.

Germany is taking tens of thousands and Angela Merkel has stood up to extreme right-wingers and said that it is the duty of her country to help.

And, do you know what, hundreds of ordinary German people are coming out to help and I am pretty sure the same would be true here.

Meanwhile, the UK government said there would be a ‘modest expansion’ in the number of Syrian refugees accepted into the UK, and a figure of 500 by the end of 2017 was cited.

Last year we took 187 people.

The government says they would rather put money into the region – and in fairness some £400m has been sent to aid refugees in countries like Jordan and Lebanon.

But I think the problem is that we have allowed a conflation of the issues around immigration and refugees.

There are issues around immigration and yes, there does need to be a re-think on how immigration works – maybe.

(However, we know that the NHS would collapse without immigration. See Jamie Oliver on C4 news saying all his businesses would close without immigrant workers. Ask any fruit farmer about finding pickers from say Liverpool or London.)

We need Cameron to have the leadership and guts to distinguish between the issues of immigration by people who want a bit better standard of living, and those who are fleeing persecution & war.

He needs to say that we, as a nation, cannot stand by and let desperate people die in Mediterranean.

He needs to say that we will be an integral part of a European response to the biggest refugee crisis since WWII.

And that involves more than sending dogs and razor wire to Calais.

(According to local sources, there were some 5,000 people in Calais trying to get into the UK in July. I am sure that the argument will be that if we let in those 5,000, another 10,00 would be hard on their heels. But 5,000 people is hardly a swarm.)

He needs to look his eurosceptic back-benchers straight in the eye and tell them to wind their necks in and search around in their copious pockets to find some human sympathy for people who have nothing, and need our help.

I’m not holding my breath on that one.

Medals II

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For anyone who read the previous piece about the cap badge, here is a quick update.

I wrote up the badge’s regimental history and also some blurb to go with the rifle medal and the WRVS medal and decided to put them at the centre of a display of military history books. (Always a good seller in our shop  –  I may have mentioned we are knee deep in retired naval officers.)

I happened to be on the till that afternoon and so could see that the medals in the window had lots of people stopping to look and read. So, I gave myself a small pat on the back and tried not to look too delighted.

Then a woman came in and bought a card and, as she left she stopped to look at the medals, and then came back in.

It turned out her uncle had been in the Rifles regiment but only at the end of WWI. He had been in the Salvation Army so, though not a full conscientious objector, had been a cook behind the lines – and driven an ambulance I think.

But as the war drew to a close and every man was said to be needed at the front, he was given a gun, no training and sent out.

He was killed a week before the armistice.

This woman’s daughter had researched a whole lot of stuff about him and the war and had collected some memorabilia, but had never had a cap badge – now she has.

PS. The rifle medal sold too but I have no idea who to, and why anyone would want it.

It left the military history display lacking a certain something, so yesterday we changed it to a table full of crafts and hobbies books – who would have thought one shop needed four books on origami?

Leaving Brussels

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The other day when I was in the cellar, I came across a lamp base with a red sticker on it.

It brought back the memories of leaving Brussels so I will now share with you what I wrote then and why the red sticker bought back memories….

We are leaving and that means ‘sorting out’ the largest house I am ever going to live in – from extensive and ‘stuff’ -filled basements and yes, we have them in the plural, to guest rooms in the attics.

We both had August off to do this but then I got a batch of work which meant hours on the computer and phone. That, as anyone self-employed will know, means that you spend your time in your ‘office’ thinking about the packing up and the time packing up thinking about who you need to phone.

Nick, like many men has a clear focus of what this sorting out involves.

I am tornado-ing through the house, throwing things out, giving things away, generally trying to reduce our belongings so that when we eventually have somewhere to permanent to live we won’t be deluged with stuff that makes you think, ‘ What on earth possessed me to think I would ever want to see this again?’

Meanwhile, Nick has sorted his ‘papers’, talked about putting all our many books into boxes in alphabetical order and polished his silver photo frames. (It was me of course, who rang the removal company and got them to deliver the boxes and so far, they are still flat packed. My suspicion is that our books may not be in perfect order when we unpack them.)

Yes of course, I am being a bit unfair.

One of the problems is that we are leaving said (huge) house, going to stay in a rented (very small) cottage for three months and then moving to a yet-be-found ( no doubt tiny because of the rental costs) apartment in Paris.

So, we have to guess what will need to come out of storage in Antwerp and be delivered to Paris and what should be left for a couple of years – maybe longer, maybe shorter, who knows. And delivered God knows where and to what.

I have devised a colour-coding system but I am always better at the bright idea than the follow through so I can see blues being confused with reds and sent with yellows to where only whites really should have gone.

The optimist in me says it will be a) fine by moving day b) I will get nice surprises when finally, some years hence all is delivered c) life is too short to worry about this stuff d) I have to maintain at least the semblance of an organised, efficient type so it will do.

The pessimist is in the corner wailing and renting (unpacked) garments and reaching for a large glass of wine.